Releasing
a long-held breath, Symeon sagged, placing his hand through his long
beard to rest on his racing heart. Days of prayer had left his knees
raw and aching, but he fell to them once again to offer up his
thanks.

Finished,
he looked back to the bearer of these glad tidings. “Matthais,
thank you. I can only say…” He noted the curious look on the
other man’s face. “What is it? Was she—?”

“She
was not molested, my lord.”

Symeon
did not care for the title of lord. I’m
no noble. He was a simple
fisherman, son of a fisherman, turned into fisher of men. That old
joke still made him smile.

But
there was no smiling now. Three days ago his daughter had been taken
from him, kidnapped by a rich old man who found her beauty
irresistable. First he had tried to buy her, but Symeon had turned
down the match. But the miser Elkanah was unused to being refused.
Just as he would have stolen an excellent horse or goat, he had sent
his men to abduct Symeon’s only daughter to be his bride.

There
was no recourse at law. As a regular visitor to the cells of Fort
Mariamne and Fort Phasael in Jerusalem, Symeon had no standing. The
new Kohen Gadol, Ananus ben Ananus, was a bitter foe, and the enmity
of the high priest put all Jerusalem against you. If he’d dared
bring this complaint, the Sanhedrin would like as not lock him up,
not Elkanah.

And
there was no turning to Roman law for Justice. Not for a Jew.

So
Symeon had turned to prayer. A prayer of deliverance. A prayer for
salvation. A prayer for the iron hand of the Lord to reach out and
protect Symeon’s little girl.

His
friends had more forceful solutions. Seth, loyal Seth of the Scars,
insisted on bringing her back, and Matthais the Mason had offered to
help. Despite his fifty years, the stonemason was strong and
vigorous, with arms like clubs. He’d taken his two young sons with
him. Though not yet men, their father’s yard had made the twins
stronger than any children Symeon had ever known.

Returned
now on a lathered horse, the normally empassioned Matthais was being
maddeningly reserved. “What is it, then? Is she injured? Has she
gone mad?”

“Your
daughter – they said she prayed all the way to Elkanah’s
holdings. It’s a day’s ride. The moment they reached the walls
and dragged her in, she was felled by some kind of fit. Writhing and
sputtering nonsense, they said. That bastard Elkanah thought she was
faking and tried to shake her, but she broke his nose with her
forehead. He lost two teeth.” Matthais’ grin was fleeting, gone
as soon as it appeared. “The fit lasted an hour, and when it was
over everyone was afraid to go near her. Someone put her in a bed,
and when she woke the next morning—” Matthais paused, clearly at
a loss for words.

Symeon’s
vivid imagination usually served him well. At this moment, it was a
curse. “What? What is it?”

Matthais
voice was like one of his stones, hard and blunt. “The left side of
her face is slack. Lifeless. Looks like she’s had a stroke. But
what thirteen year-old girl has a stroke? They’re saying, at
Elkanah’s hold, they’re saying that she was touched. Marked, by
the Lord. Elkanah, the coward, ran back to the city just an hour
before we arrived. His men said something about a sacrifice, penance.
When we got there, Elkanah’s men were more than happy to hand her
over. They’re afraid. As they should be, the bastards. I hope the
Lord shrivels their cocks and splits their shins.”

“He
was correct.” They had to leave. If this story spread around
Jerusalem, that would be just one more excuse to lock him up, stop
his work. Perhaps even murder him. Already they had executed so many
of his friends. From the old days, only Seth and Matthais were left.
And Saul.
But Saul had always traveled his own road.

“Where
will you go, my lord?”

“Where
they can’t touch us,” answered Symeon. “We’ll go to the
center of the world. We’ll go to Rome.”

* * * * * *

The
girl was half-asleep in her saddle when they arrived, an hour before
dawn. They’d ridden all night. Seth, good Seth, suspicious Seth, he
understood the danger they were all in.

Matthais’
twins hopped off their mounts at once, stretching their sores.
“Horses!” groaned one. “We would have done better to walk.”

“Blessed
is the man that walketh not in the counsel of the ungodly,”
said the other. That had to be Asher, the boy prodigy. It was said he
could perfectly quote any part of Scripture from memory. Which meant
the other was Judah, the brawler. Always getting into fights, or so
his father claimed. Of the two, Matthais was prouder of Judah.

Ignoring
the twins, Symeon raced to his daughter’s side, pulled her down
from horseback, and enfolded her in his arms. “Perel! Perel! My
pearl…” He had no other words, nothing to say beyond her name.

Drowsy,
she blinked at him. “Father. I’m fine, father. Truly.” And she
smiled up at him.

That
smile broke his heart. The right side of her face was life, joy, a
flower in full bloom. But the left – a mawkish imitation, waxen,
limp and lifeless. Tears flooded his eyes as he reached out to touch
her slack cheek. “Does it hurt?”

“Not
at all.” She was trying to sound chirpy, the way she’d always
answered him. But she had to speak carefully, for her lips were only
half in use. “I’m sorry for all the trouble.” The sorry
was a little slurred.

“No
trouble, no trouble,” murmured her father, pressing his lips into
her hair. Over her head his gaze fixed on Seth. “No trouble?”

“Not
yet.” Sliding down from his saddle, Seth looked as he always did –
hideous. Wounded as a youth, a puckered and shiny scar ran from his
nose across all the way to his left ear. It made the sinister side of
his face even moreso, pinching the flesh under one eye and giving him
a grotesque leer. Not even a neat, trim beard could help. My
friend and my daughter are now a matched pair.

Still
hugging his daughter, Symeon heard the stonemason greet his sons.
“Boys. Made yourselves useful, I hope.”

Seth
answered. “They did. Judah got a deer with his sling. Asher kept us
awake with his stories.”

“Stories,”
sneered Matthais. “At least your brother does something useful.
You’re not a priestling, boy, and doubtful ever will be, no matter
what they tell you at your beth
hasefer. Seems
to me you ought to learning to be a man before you give it all up for
stories.”

Asher
was red in the face and silent. It was his twin who answered, flexing
his fists. “He kept our minds off our saddlesores and hunger.
Pretty useful, I’d say.”

Side
by side, the twins faced their father. Half past eleven years, their
mother had died bearing them, and they seemed the Castor and Pollux
of Judea. So alike in form, so different in spirit. Yet inseperable,
even in the face of their father’s anger.

Symeon
released his daughter and put a hand on his friend’s shoulder.
“Matthais, I haven’t yet thanked your sons. Judah, Asher, I owe
you both a debt I can never repay.”

The
boys had only met him a handful of times, so his debt likely didn’t
matter much to them. They had gone after Perel as an adventure, as a
boon for their father. Their father had never explained the bond
between himself and Symeon. Doubtful he ever would. Matthais was a
man of Jerusalem, and in the White City a link to Symeon meant death.

Still,
he owed the boys something more. He didn’t have an inkling what to
do for the rough-and-tumble Judah. In Asher, however, he knew just
what offer would serve. “If you ever want a teacher, Asher, come to
me. I’ll treat you as my own son. You can be a priest, even if it’s
in exile in Rome.”

The
boy’s eyes widened. “Rome?”

Perel’s
eyes had similarly turned into saucers. “Is that where we’re
going?”

“We
sail in an hour. Best we get our things aboard.”

Seth
moved to obey. Symeon took one more look at his daughter’s face,
feeling he had best say something. Softly in her ear he said, “He
has marked you as His own. It is an honor.”

Symeon
gathered his band of followers and made for one of Azotus’ three
quays, Nebi Yunis. Their passage was on a Greek merchantman called
the Crest Dancer,
its V-shaped hull making extra room for amphorae of oils and
perfumes. It would call at Ptolmais, Tyre, Paphos on Cyprus, Rhodes,
then the long run to Athens. From there the small band would have to
find their own way to the City of the Seven Hills. And there were
many cities, towns, and hamlets on the way to preach in, and fish for
more men.

Watching
his daughter board the Dancer, Symeon was glad to be quitting this
port city, which had once belonged to a dancing princess called
Salome, a woman who had arranged the beheading of one of Symeon’s
friends. So much death. And so
much of it is Jew shedding the blood of his brother’s blood. Cain
has much to answer for.

Matthais
and his sons helped them shift their possessions aboard, then
returned to the quay. Symeon said, “You’re certain you will not
come?”

Matthais
shook his head. “Jerusalem’s walls have too much of my blood in
them. It’d be like leaving behind a brother. Besides, masoning is
all I know. And a mason needs a city as much as the city needs him.”

Symeon
understood. Unlike him, Matthais was in no danger. He had never been
a true convert. Only a friend. But if there was ever a man to be
fished… “Rome is always building. There’s never a shortage of
work.”

“Like
as not I’d be carving false idols, then, and new Towers of Babel.
No, thank you. I’ll see you when you return.”

Symeon
frowned. Return? When will
that be? He had always
assumed that he would die in Judea. But now he had the strangest
feeling that this was his last moment on Judean soil.

Embracing
Matthais, he said farewell to the twins and climbed aboard. As the
oarsmen shoved them off and wafted them around, he noticed his
daughter looking back at the twins, still standing on the quay. One
of them waved, and she waved back, with her sad half-smile clear as
day. He wondered which of them had become her friend until she said,
“Do you think he will come and study?”

So
it was Asher, the prodigy. Naturally. His daughter favored the
exceptional. “Perhaps, when he’s old enough.”

Hugging
his daughter tight, Symeon watched his native land grow smaller and
smaller. He had left it many times, but always to return. Something
told him that this time, it was not to be. This was the last
farewell.

The
rising sun was just cresting the horizon, dazzling him. His last
impression was of the handsome twins on the quay, wrestling and
playing as boys will, trying to topple each other into the water. So
much of Judea in them. Or rather, of Israel. Intelligence and
strength. A questing mind, and a strong will. Those were the rocks of
Judaism.

All
at once one brother hooked the other’s foot, sending him over
backwards. The falling twin kept hold of the other’s wrist, and
they fell together into the water, much to their father’s disgust.
Symeon laughed, squinting at the sun glinting off the water.

When
he was unable to stare into the bright sunlight any longer, Symeon
escorted his daughter below, then asked the ship’s captain if there
was a fishing net about. “I like to be useful.”

Part
One

Eagles
and Vultures

I

Beth
Horon, Judea

3
November, 66 AD

As
if obedient to Joshua’s famous command, the moon hung over the
plain of Ajalon like a lamp. A threatening lamp, close, cold –
taunting, just out of reach. Full of promise. Full of menace.

The
name meant the Place of Deer,
and just now the deer and gazelles were skittishly returning after a
fright. The terrible stamping thunder had shook the earth, driving
them far afield. Venturing back now, their hackles were up, their
nerves jittery. So at the first sign of another influx of hunters,
they fled again in silence – unlike the birds hiding in the grove
of apricot trees, who screamed their outrage as they took flight. It
was night, they protested. No time for hunter’s games.

They
needn’t have feared. This night the hunters were after different
prey.

Among
the hunters was Judah ben Matthais. At
seventeen, the mason’s son was more Goliath than David, his
expansive chest built by years of hewing stone. But unlike Goliath,
he had an almost embarrassing comeliness – lush black hair, strong
brow, and a body sculpted by years of hard work. Shirtless, barefoot,
running in just his kilted cloth, his overall appearance was almost
Greek – not the Greeks he rubbed elbows with every day, but the
statuary, the beautiful figures of Hellenic myth and song that had
invaded Judean culture. Yet his face, from the strong chin to the
slight curve of his nose, was pure Hebrew.

The
hard planes of his muscles moved like a machine, or a wild animal. He
moved with a lithe step, almost weightless, and he ran as if he were
one of the deer, leaping and barely touching the earth.

There
was one difference. Deer didn’t carry spears.

Judah
shifted the weapon in his grip. From sawing stone to swinging a
stick, he had capable hands, strong and large. He didn’t have his
brother’s way with books or words, nor his father’s sarcastic
streak. He didn’t have his grandfather’s fabled patience, nor his
dead mother’s sweetness. Judah was just an angry man who was good
with his hands.

Passing
the grove of apricots trees, he remembered bringing Deborah here in
the summer months. It had been sweet smelling then, but in the time
between the fruits had all been stolen and the trees stood denuded as
if by locust. These trees were lucky. The larger trees of Ajalon had
all been ravaged, knocked down for the invaders’ fort or made into
siege engines.

Thinking
of Deborah made him angry. He pushed thoughts of her from his mind
and ran on.

Past
a small village, Judah and the rest arrived at the great ancient
highroad, new-covered with paving stones. This same road had brought
the Canaanites, Israelites, Philistines, Aegyptians, and Syrians. It
was the road of pilgrimage, and the road of invasion. But unlike all
other invaders, the Romans had not only used it, but made it their
own, repaving it as they marched. They put their mark on everything
they touched, like some hideous nation of Cain.

Breathing
hard, Judah ignored the road. Instead he scrambled up the ancient
goat-paths on the southern hill ridge. He’d spent countless hours
among these hills with his brother, quarrying stone for their father.
Normally he might fear a panther or a wolf lurking in a shallow cave.
He remembered a nasty fright as a boy when he’d encountered a lone
hyena. But tonight the noise from the road had driven all such beasts
away.

Behind
him hundreds of men followed as fast as their feet could carry them.
Others crossed the road to ascend the northern slope, racing to get
ahead of their prey in the valley below.

The
Valley of Beth-Horon.

It
was here that another Judah, son of another Matthias, had led a
revolt against foreign overlords. He had been called the Makkabi –
the Hammer of the Lord. Whimsically, Judah wished he had one of his
father’s stone-working hammers. He liked symmetry.

Across
the ridge ahead Judah heard the deafening, uniform stamp of hobnail
boots, the clatter of hooves, and the creak of wagons and siege
machines. The sound of a Roman army.

Racing
and stumbling over the rocks, his free hand groping up the rest of
the slope, Judah clutched the spear haft. Apart from this lone spear
he’d plucked from a dead man, Judah’s only weapon was a sling.
Traditional, almost poetic. He didn’t even have a sword, and
there’d been no time to go home and take his father’s. Things had
happened so fast! One moment the Romans were attacking the Temple,
the next they were pulling up their stakes and marching smartly back
the way they’d come. And the whole city, it seemed, had given
chase.

Judah
was no rebel. He paid his taxes. He’s had no part in the riots, the
kidnappings, the murders. Those had been the agitators, the Zelotes
and Sicarii. Even when word came of the massacre in Alexandria and
the death of his twin brother, Judah hadn’t taken to the streets.
But the anger, seething and boiling, had built. And built.

Then,
this morning, the Romans had attacked the heart of his faith, the
most sacred site in all the world. In answer, the common men of
Jerusalem, men like Judah, had poured into the streets. No shouts, no
cries. They were more fearsome for their silence. After a few brief
skirmishes, the wary Romans had retreated, and the Jews had followed.
As fast as the Romans ran, the Jews ran faster. Without shield,
without helm, without armour of any kind. Nothing but their rightous
rage.

Judah
started among them, then suddenly he was ahead of them, leading them
out of the city after the fleeing Roman legion. Anger gave him
inexhaustible strength to run, his lungs filling and collapsing like
the bellows under the brick-furnace in his father’s yard. The spear
in his grip weighed almost nothing. It was crimson, still covered in
the lifeblood of his neightbor Jocha. Poor Jocha, so eager, so slow.
The short Roman pilum
had pierced his throat and knocked him from the rooftop before he
could loose his first slingstone. Kneeling beside him, Judah had
plucked the spear forth, and a welter of blood had pulsed out behind
it, speeding Jocha to his death.

“Fool,”
his father had said, closing the dying man’s eyes. “Brave idiot.
Now who’ll look after your mother and son?”

“I
will,” said Judah, clutching the spear so hard his knuckles turned
white.

His
father had laughed. “Which means me, since I look after you. You’re
awfully free with my largesse. Now come inside before some Roman
makes us pin-cushions as well. They’ll be gone soon enough, then we
can bury our dead.”

“No.”
Judah had stood and headed for where the fighting was.

“Where
are you going? Judah! Judah, no…!” The old man’s voice had been
lost to the thunder of voices crying for vengence, the thunder of
Roman boots and trumpets, the thunder hammering in Judah’s ears.

Forgive
me, father. I can’t be anything but what I am.

Now,
under the heavy and pregnant moon, he scrambled to be first to launch
his weapon into the Roman ranks. But that honor went to another. The
short man wore a priest’s robes and looked wild as a desert jackal.
His hair and beard were all disordered, and spittle was on his lips.
This man had led the charge out of the city, and barely stopped for
breath the whole way. Reaching the top of the ridge just three steps
ahead of Judah, he screamed like a lunatic and threw his spear
blindly into the disordered Romans below.

Judah
took pause to aim. He’d seen them thrown, but he’d never handled
a spear himself. Planting his feet wide, Judah raised his weapon to
his ear. Taking a huge breath, he stepped into the throw and heaved.
The spear vanished into the shadowy depths below. For a moment there
was nothing. Then he heard a cry from below, followed by the crisp
orders of the centurions. “Testudo!
Testudo!” The Romans were
forming their tortoise, using their shields to build a wall overhead
and along their flanks.

Judah
was already unwrapping the sling from his waist. Unable to carry
knives in the streets, the young men of the city had improvised.
Wearing the wide leather band as a belt kept the Romans from noticing
it if they stopped you. And the sling was a holy weapon, the choice
weapon of kings and shepherds alike.

As
more Judeans clambered up to launch their spears, Judah knelt and
found a rock no bigger than his palm. He nocked it into the leather
sling and started the weapon spinning.

“For
Asher,” murmured Judah. Three months ago his twin brother had
vanished in the riots at Alexandria, when a Roman legion massacred
the entire Jewish district. Shaking, Judah sent his stone hurtling
down into the Roman ranks. Recovering his balance, he found a film
over his eyes. He blinked it away and bent down, feeling around for
his next missile.

The
next time he cast his sling loose, his bullet was joined by dozens
more, raining down a ragged but deadly volley into the disordered
Twelfth Legion below.

The
Valley of Beth-Horon was a legendary place in Hebrew history, a place
of revolution, of the casting off of tyranny and oppression,
conjuring visions of heroic deeds and noble causes.

Judah’s
cause this night was avenging his brother. Blood thundering in his
ears, he reached down for the next stone.

* * * * * *

In
the valley below, down among the Romans, a woman called Cleopatra
screamed. Dressed in a gown more fit for feasting than flight, the
Roman woman buried her head under a goose-feather pillow and spit
curses at the invisible Jews above, employing the only Aramaic she
had bothered to learn in her three years here. “Raca!
Adhadda
kedhabhra!”

Her
husband, Gessius Florus, dismounted and dragged her out of her
litter. Pushing her head down, he made her kneel down
behind a dozen stout Roman shields, far better protection than goose
feathers.

It
was a full moon, and by the light leaking through the chinks in the
upheld shields Cleopatra saw she was crouching by the foot of King
Agrippa, titular ruler of Judea. The king stood upright and
unflinching under the patter of stones on the shields.

“Typical
Judeans,” spat Cleopatra, “assaulting their own king. And typical
of a Jewish king, to be so ineffectual! Aah!” Another volley of
rattling stones made her throw her hands over her head.

On
her other side, Florus patted her shoulder. “Now now, Cleopatra.
Just keep your head down.”
He shot a grin at the king, who was ignoring Roman couple.

All
around them the Twelfth Legion struggled with an invisible foe, known
only by the rattle of stones and the screams of wounded legionaries.
A second shower of stones had started from the other side of the
valley as well – the Judean rebels now held the high ground on both
sides and were decimating the legion with their slings.

Having
run out of Aramaic curses, the Roman lady switched to her native
Latin. “Cunni!
Mentulae! Fellatores!”

“Quiet
woman!” snarled King Agrippa, unable to contain himself any longer.
“Florus, control your wife!”

But
Gessius Florus, Roman knight and Procurator of Judea, ignored the
king’s order. Despite the danger, the plump governor was improbably
gleeful. Under a hail of slingstones, he was thinking, O,
thank you, Jews! Thank you! You have saved me!

Florus
had spent the last three years raping this land. He’d hated the
Judeans from first sight of them, having dealt with enough Hebrews in
Rome. From the moment he’d arrived he had set out to enrich himself
at their expense. He’d raked in taxes and bribes in unheard-of
quantities. Those Jews who could not pay were tortured and crucified.

Early
on, the complaints had been easy enough to ignore. But eventually
even the Hebrew priests had expressed their displeasure, opening up
an avalanche of complaints and accusations that had gone all the way
to Rome. If it had gone on any longer, Nero Caesar would finally have
taken notice, threatening the grand fortune Florus had stolen from
these heathen Hebrews.

The
only way for Florus to hide his deeds (and his gold!) was to start a
war. Not that he could declare one himself – he was only a knight,
not a senator. But what he could do was bait these silly Jews into
starting one. For decades there had been fear of a revolution in
Judea. All he had to do was fan those flames.

He
began by adding more taxes. The Jews bent, but did not break. Then he
demanded the gold from their great Temple. Even that insult hadn’t
been enough to move these dullards. So he had struck them where they
were most sensitive – their lonely god. Noting their reaction to
any sacrilige, he had placed the image of Nero inside their precious
Temple, to be worshipped alongside their god.

Predictably,
the citizens of Jerusalem had gone wild, sacking the Roman garrison
there, and burning King Agrippa’s palace. Best of all, they burned
all the contracts and deeds lodged in the governor’s palace, thus
removing all proof of his chicanery. The uprising provided Florus
with a pretext to demand reinforcements. The governor of Syria had
dutifully marched on the city, and now the Judeans were responding
just as Florus had hoped. When news of this attack reached Rome, Nero
would wage all-out war. And Florus’ gold would be safe.

Noting
the cold stare of the Judean king, Florus said, “Invigorating, is
it not, your majesty?”

Agrippa
turned away. Florus grinned until he noted the look on the face of
the king’s bodyguard. A thin man, taller than any Roman, he was a
fearsome sight. Unlike the king, this man eschewed Western dress, and
grew his beard in the old Hebrew way, long and neatly squared. But
his head was shaved, and the moonlight reflected off a deep scar
along one side of his scalp just above the ear. He carried an
enormous sword, half as tall as himself and as wide as an
outstretched hand, but crooked halfway down the blade. Not a
soldier’s blade. A gladiator’s blade. A barbarian’s blade.

This
fearsome monster, so foreign and other, was staring down at him with
undisguised scorn. Like any coward, Florus felt a burning resentment
and consoled himself with thoughts of revenge. I
can’t kill your king, but I can have you killed easily enough, my
friend. In fact… “My dear
king, should not your man here be helping? Such a fierce warrior
should be in the thick of things, not hiding with women and old men!”

“Levi
is my bodyguard,” replied Agrippa. “He does not need to be
fighting his brothers, my own people.”

Disgusted,
Agrippa stalked away to find a horse. The bodyguard Levi lingered a
moment more, gazing down at Florus. Then he followed his master.
Watching them go, the governor of Judea stifled a laugh. Romans bowed
to no king, and especially not a client king who needed Rome’s
protection against his own people. Thinking of all the insults he’d
heaped upon the king and his sister-queen, Florus laughed outright.

The
laugh died in his throat as one of the slingstones punched through
the edge of a Roman shield and struck the paved road just inches
away. Florus reached out and felt the pit in the road it had made,
and imagined what that would have done to his flesh. He called up to
the Syrian governor, still astride his horse. “Gallus! Get us out
of here!”

From
his saddle, Gaius Cestius Gallus scowled at the squat, pudgy knight.
A consular senator and general, it was inconceivable to him that a
Roman man should cower with women and foreigners.

He
had Florus’ measure, to be sure. But duty to Rome had compelled him
to bring the Twelfth Legion to Judea and patch up whatever crisis
Florus had caused.

However,
he had misjudged the situation entirely. The resistance he had
encountered in Jerusalem was fierce and bitter. This wasn’t the
anger at a few years of abuse. This was the boiling resentment of
generations.

Even
this retreat was going poorly. Already he had lost dozens of men,
including his entire cavalry. These damn Judean sling-stones were
usually no more than a nuisance, but his men were exhausted, thirsty,
and on uncertain terrain. And the Judeans had their blood up.

Gallus
issued crisp orders to his senior legate. “Find five centuries to
push up the slopes and guard our retreat. Four hundred men should
have room to deploy. They’re to drive them back, buy the rest of us
time to make an orderly retreat up the valley.”

Mid-note,
the bugler issuing the order was struck by a hail of stones,
destroying his instrument along with his life. The five centurions
had to be given their task by word of mouth. Obediently they started
their men up the rise to meet the enemy, with the good lady Cleopatra
still spitting curses behind them.

The
Twelfth Legion had a proud history. They had fought with Caesar
against the Nervii, had made history at the siege of Alesia, and
defeated Pompey the Great at Pharsalus. They would not fall to a pack
of Judean rabble throwing stones.

* * * * * *

Judah
was scrabbling for another stone when the whizzing sound of the
slings stopped. Looking down the slope he saw legionaries climbing to
meet them. “That’s right, bastards,” said someone nearby. “Come
on.”

A
sword scraped from its wooden sheath, and Judah turned to stare
enviously. The blade was held by an Idumean, to judge by the dark
skin and long hair. The hairline was receeding, making this man an
incongruously comic figure. But his voice was all angry defiance.
“For Israel!”

On
Judah’s other side, the wild priest Simon bar Giora beat his chest
with his hands. “For Israel!”

“Israel!!”
Howling and keening, the Judeans surged down to engage the Romans.

Adding
his voice to the battle cry, Judah leapt down the slope, thrilling.
This wasn’t like the fighting he had done in the stews of
Jerusalem, brawling with friends and neighbors, clouting the
occasional priestly snob. This was man’s work. This was the Lord’s
work.

A
Roman soldier lunged at him, the wicked point of the blade angling up
towards his bare ribs. Judah didn’t even flinch. He slapped it
aside with the flat of his hand and punched the Roman full in the
face, knocking the man off his feet to tumble into his fellows.

A
second Roman stabbed at this handsome fool of a Judean. Judah threw
himself back from this blade and lost his footing. Worse, the angle
of the slope was so steep that his fall had him skidding and slipping
down into the Roman ranks. His feet struck a legionary’s ankles and
brought him crashing down on top of Judah. Suddenly the two men were
rolling, careening into other men, a mass of limbs. Romans leapt out
of the way, cursing in Latin as the two combatants hurtled through
the ranks, down towards the road.

Judah
was taking the worst of it, crushed and buffeted by the Roamn’s
breastplate, shield, and greaves. But he ignored the pain as they
continued to tumble, struggling for dominance.
The sword! Judah stopped
fighting to be on top, and instead used all his strength to grasp the
legionary’s wrist. As they slid, he held the hand against the
rocks, knocking the weapon free.

The
Roman answered by bashing at Judah with his shield and kicking with a
nailed boot. The stinging pain made Judah gasp – his back was
already bloody from the fall, and now his left leg was awash with
blood. But the ground was evening out, slowing their descent. Judah
twisted around, still kicking and elbowing. His hands grasped one of
the Roman’s legs at the knee. He twisted, hard. The Roman screamed,
crying out in some gutteral Latin dialect for some distant god. Using
his hands to slither to a halt, Judah cursed at him and shoved him
away.

He
put a hand out to rise and discovered it wasn’t earth under his
hand, nor rocky outcroppings of jagged stone. This stone was flat and
smooth and even. He had fallen all the way down to the road. Alone,
among a whole Roman legion.

I’m
a dead man.

Somewhere
higher on the hill behind him the balding Judean leader released a
ferel shout. “Israel! Death to Rome!”

Death.
The Roman’s sword was lost, but his shield was still on his arm.
Kneeling over the groaning man, Judah knocked the Roman flat,
wrenched the shield, raised it high and drove the edge of it like a
massive spade down into the gap between helmet and armour. The
Roman’s head parted from his body, sending spurts of blood onto the
stones all around.

Judah
staggered to his feet, looking frantically around him. He’d fallen
clean through the ranks of one century, and was now between the
horses of the vanguard and the tortoise of the legion. Weaponless,
bloodied, naked – even his kilted loincloth had ripped away – he
was sure that death was coming for him at any moment. I’m
going to die a fool’s death.

But
so far no one was seeing him. The soldiers to the south were huddled
behind their shields, and the horsemen were galloping north for the
mouth of the valley, and escape. Every heartbeat brought more Judeans
down towards the road. If Judah could survive just one minute more,
he’d be among his fellows again.

There
were Romans in the road, dead or dying from spears and slingstones.
Clutching the bloody shield, Judah ran to the closest, a groaning man
in a silver helm whose chest was spurting irregular gouts of blood
through a hole in his breastplate. Judah bent low and plucked the
man’s sword from its hard scabbard.

“Fellator,”
gasped the dying Roman. Judah wondered if it had been his stone that
had caught this man.

He
heard a clatter of hooves behind him and turned. A mounted man had
glanced back, seen him, and was now reining about to cut him down.
The moonlight reflected off a bald pate and huge Judean sword. “No!
I’m a brother!” Judah opened his arms, refusing to fight another
Jew.

The
horse came racing at Judah, the massive sword held high. Judah lifted
his own blade to parry it—

The
clang of metal on metal sounded like it was inside his head. But it
came from just behind him. Judah ducked and glanced back. The horse
was already past him. Lying on the ground Judah saw the injured Roman
whose sword he had stolen, a long knife in his hand. He had no face.
His helm had been split, and there was blood pooling all around him.

Judah
glanced up at his rescuer. Much older than Judah, wiry and very tall.
Deep-set eyes, bristling brow, and a neatly-squared beard. He’d
killed the Roman with a huge version of the traditional Judean sword,
long blade angled forward at the midpoint like a crooked finger.

It
was less than fifteen seconds since he’d landed on the road. Now
the Roman centuries on the slopes were falling back under the crush
of the thousands of Judeans racing down from above. Boulders bounced
down into the ranks of the tortoises, breaking the Roman ranks. The
Romans themselves were abandoning their tortoise shell to draw their
swords and attack their besiegers.

The
lone horseman looked back the way he had come. A rabble of Judeans
had come down onto the road, chasing the other riders. He was cut off
from his companions.

“Thank
you,” called Judah.

The
tall man gave Judah a disdainful glare. “Gratitude later. Fight
now!” With a grimace that was part snarl, part grin, he leapt down
from his saddle and waded into the ranks of the scattering Romans,
leaving Judah behind.

Clever,
thought Judah. Cut off, his
only chance now is to change sides and fight with us.

But
he was cut off because he rescued me. I owe him my life.
Judah followed the bearded turncoat onto the valley floor where the
forces or Rome and Judea were meeting to become a roiling mass of
men, blood, and steel.

* * * * * *

Roman
legates were shouting orders. “Forget the siege engines! Leave the
baggage! Kill the mules!” The stones had started again, this time
from the front of the valley – some clever Judeans had climbed the
crests to harass the Roman escape route.

A
stone struck a glancing blow to Cestius Gallus’ breastplate,
rocking him back in the saddle. “Cacat!”
The Roman general clenched his knees on the saddle’s horns, but the
weight of his armour threatened to topple him.

A
hand shot out to steady him. King Agrippa was leaning sideways in his
own saddle. “Gratias.”

“If
the general were to fall, Caesar’s wrath would be all the greater.
Besides,” added Agrippa with a ghost of a smile, “my sister likes
you.” His Latin bore no trace of foreignness or rusticality. A
client king, Agrippa had been raised in Rome, and was in spirit far
more Roman than Jew.

“Thanks,”
repeated Gallus.

Glancing
back, the king scowled. “Though I confess, I might risk Nero’s
fury to see Florus fall.” Just behind them, Florus was refusing to
get back into his saddle, choosing instead to climb into a covered
wagon with his wife.

Though
he ferverently agreed, Gallus had no time for a chat. The emboldened
Judeans were coming ever faster. If the Twelfth Legion and all its
reinforcing cohorts did not escape this valley at once, they would
die to the last man. He shouted to every man that could hear: “Fly
fly fly!”

As
Agrippa shook his reins and galloped off with the Roman officers, he
realized in passing that he had lost his bodyguard.

* * * * * *

Judah
chased his tall savior through the thick of the fighting. A silent
challenge had been issued, and Judah had never backed away from a
challenge in his life.

But
if the goal was to kill more Romans than his opponent, Judah was
clearly out-classed. The gaunt moonlit figure bested two legionaries
with contemptuous ease, killing one and slicing out the other’s
eyes with a single stroke. The man was clearly well-trained, a
merchant of death, purchasing one life after another. Every flick of
his wrist drew Roman blood.

Lacking
training, Judah fought by instinct, relying on his size and strength
to see him through. He was used to shifting stones, and now he
employed his strong arms to haul Romans off-balance and stab them or,
more often, punch them with the hard wide pommel at the sword’s
other end.

More
and more Judans were joining them down on the road, and it was pure
confusion. Screams and shouts and the occasional sparks of steel on
steel. The smell in the air was earthy and electric – blood and
sweat and shit and fear.

Judah
still held the shield, but it was getting in his way. It slowed him
too much, and he was not interested in defense. This was the moment
to attack! What did it matter if he fell here? This would be a fine
place to die, and in a fine cause.

This
would be a good death. Though I wish I weren’t naked…

Embracing
the inevitable, Judah threw his shield aside. At once a Roman lunged,
seizing the opening. Judah caught the man’s arm in his free hand
and brought his sword down hard. The Roman screamed, blood gysering
out of the stump at his elbow. Judah twisted the severed arm and
stabbed the Roman with his own blade. The lifeless fingers fell away
from the grip, and Judah waded into the enemy ranks with a blade in
each hand. That’s better,
he thought.

He
wasn’t aware he was laughing until a voice said, “What are you
giggling at?” The question came from another Judean fighting beside
him. Phannius, another mason. Where
did he come from? Phannius
was a lout, and fought like it, clubbing as many friends as foes, the
idiot. His family considered itself above Judah’s, because it had a
drop of priestly blood. Judah hoped the fool was cut down. Would
serve him right.

Judah’s
bile was very personal. Last month, after almost a year of courting,
Judah had asked for Phannius’ sister’s hand in marriage. He’d
been refused. Not good enough.

Deborah.
She’d smiled at him with such eyes—

Judah
gasped as a Roman spear was knocked away from his nose. He hadn’t
seen it at all, not until the tall bald turncoat had beat it aside.
“Pay attention! I didn’t save you for nothing!”

Almost
sheepishly, Judah redoubled his efforts. He was covered in blood, a
fair amount of it his own. Despite his strong lungs he was panting
now. Worse, his mind was beginning to fog. The hardest part of
sword-work, he was finding, was the shock of the blows. That, and
pulling the sword out of flesh – though it went in easy enough.

He
saw a sword coming down to cleave his skull, and he brought up both
his blades in a cross to catch it. He was about to shoulder his
attacker away when a reflection of moonlight caught his eye. The
lamp-like orb was shining down upon a pair of golden wings, bobbing
high above the roiling swords and spears. It was a shaft of
illumination just for him. The V of his swords overhead made a
perfect frame for the large eagle perched high atop a pole. The Roman
Aquila, symbol of Roman might and majesty. The
eagle...

Binding
the Roman’s sword away with one blade and stabbing with the other,
Judah was seized with an insane notion. To his protector he shouted,
“Tell me your name!”

The
fearsome turncoat was driving back three legionaries. “Levi!”

“Levi,
I’m going for that eagle! You can come or not.”

Levi
barked out a short. “Oh, can I?”

But
Judah was already moving. The thing was just a dozen paces away. Not
good enough? I’ll show them how good I am. How good we both are,
Asher. I’ll die a hero of Israel.

He
moved without thought, without fear. He felt only an angry
confidence, as if his sword was being guided. The
Lord is my sword, and my sword is His. I am that I am.
“Come on, you bastards! Come on!”

Suddenly
Levi was by his side, and Judah grinned in spite of himself. I’m
not the only fool. They
fought furiously, heaving, shoving, slashing, hacking, stabbing,
Judah with twin Roman blades, Levi cleaving with his massive crooked
one. They called out taunts and curses in every tongue they knew as
they moved inexorably towards the eagle.

Sensing
the danger to their standard, the Romans closed ranks, creating a
solid wall around the aquilifer.
Dressed in glittering silver armour and the skin of a desert lion, he
was a man chosen for his absolute fearlessness. The aquilifer
would give his life before he let his eagle fall.

The
Roman shield wall was bristling with spears. Dodging a spearthrust to
his face, Levi grabbed a nearby legionary by the chin-strap and
hauled him around onto the sword of his neighbor. Hacking down with
his massive sword on the other side, he created a momentary gap in
the thin line. “Go!”

Judah
leapt at once, diving and stabbing out with both swords. One blade
drove through the leather skirts into a thigh, the other one up under
a Roman’s chin, exiting through the top of his skull.

Both
swords were torn from Judah’s grip. He let them go and roared as he
shouldered through the ranks. Barking his knee on a breastplate,
careening off another armored shoulder, he touched the road with one
foot and launched himself at the aquilifer.

The
aquilifer’s
silver armor gave him an almost ghostlike presence in the moonlight.
But he was quick. He lifted the staff in his hands and thrust the
butt end of it at Judah’s face. Judah’s hands clamped down just
before it struck him, diverting it to one side. He landed badly, but
held on to the staff, wrestling for control of it, the eagle at the
far end dancing jerkily.

This
was more like the fighting Judah knew, the rough and tumble battles
of Jerusalem’s stews, where elbows, knees, and teeth came into
play. There were swords around him, but he yanked the staff hard the
way he had come, where the Romans were too busy with Levi and the
others to waste precious seconds ending his life.

The
lion’s head fell askew and Judah butted the aquilifer’s
nose with his forehead. Blood erupted, misting the air between them.
Some entered Judah’s nose and mouth as he breathed in, and for a
moment he choked on Roman blood. “Bastard!”

“Cunnus!”
snarled the Roman. “Fellator!”
Enraged, the aquilifer
tripped Judah and they tumbled together to the hard road, just
missing a spearthrust aimed sidelong at Judah’s back.

Gripping
the staff tightly, Judah ground his teeth and focused his strength.
Slowly, incredibly, the hearty oak shaft began to bend. Oak was a
wood beloved of Mars, Judah had heard. Stupid
foreign gods, with their stupid pagan loves and idiot superstitions!
He heaved harder, and harder, grinding his teeth so hard they felt
like they might shatter.

It
was the oak that shattered, bursting in a shower of splinters right
in the aquilifer’s face.
Taking advantage of the Roman’s surprise, Judah drove the two
splintered ends of the staff upwards. One gouged a deep furrow in the
Roman’s cheek while the other tore away most of the man’s left
ear.

The
aquilifer
was damnably well-trained. Even as he twisted away in agony, he drew
his dagger and stabbed blindly down. Judah used the broken stave to
block the blow and jabbed up again. This time the wooden shaft
deflected harmlessly off the hard Roman breastplate.

Smearing
blood from his face with one forearm, the
aquilifer pinned one of
Judah’s wrists with his knee. He stabbed down, and Judah barely got
the broken haft in his free hand between him and the dagger’s
wicked point.

Surging
with rage, Judah heaved the aquilifer
sideways and clubbed the Roman hard on the side of his head with the
golden eagle, cracking his skull. The aquilifer
fell to the dirt under a spray of blood.

“For
you, Asher! That’s for you!” Shoving the limp Roman off him,
Judah struggled to his feet, a nightmarish figure, naked, howling,
drenched in blood. “You hear me! That’s for my brother!”
Swinging the broken Roman standard around his head, he dived into the
Roman ranks and beat at them with their own symbol. Behind him Levi
came fast, sweeping his massive blade to protect Judah’s back. But
Judah was past caring about safety. He had the eagle, and with it in
his grip he was fearless, unstoppable.

“The
eagle! The eagle!” Judean cheers spread like wildfire. The whole
world knew the significance of the Roman aquila.
Touched by the hand of Nero himself, it was a piece of Rome itself.
Taking it was nothing less than a miracle, a sign from the Lord!

The
massed Judeans surged forward and began literally tearing the
legionaries to pieces.

* * * * * *

At
the mouth of the valley, governor Florus saw the eagle fall and
chortled. Now they’ve done
it. These Judeans have doomed themselves for certain.

Not
far off, King Agrippa shared the pride of his people’s great deed,
yet felt sick at heart. Today his countrymen had touched off a
self-immolating inferno, building their funeral pyre on a tower of
bravery. The definition of a Pyrrhic victory. He saw the massive
croocked blade among the Roman ranks, slicing and maiming. O
Levi – what have you done?

The
two governors, the king, and a handful of Roman nobles and officers
escaped into the night, leaving behind more than four thousand Roman
soldiers dead or dying. A few hundred struggled on, fighting for
their personal share of honor, hoping their gods looked on them with
favor.

* * * * * *

Judah
was in the thick of it, a prodidgious figure of death. One Roman he
approached was his own age, but thin and unmartial – an officer
sent from Rome, probably some scion of a famous house. The fellow
dropped his sword and knelt before Judah, hands clasped and eyes
streaming. “Pax! Pax!
Elision!”

Judah
didn’t know the last word, but the meaning was clear – mercy.
Picturing his twin brother doing the same before some Roman, Judah
stabbed the young officer in the throat and moved on, looking for his
next foe.

But
there was no one left to kill. The Legio XII Fulminata – Wielders
of the Thunderbolt, conquerors of the Nervii, victors of Alesia and
Pharsalus – were no more.

II

The
celebrations lasted straight through the night. Word of the victory
had gone back to Jerusalem and the city’s women, children, and
elderly had poured out to bring their men food and water. Dead Jews
were lovingly returned to the city. Pyres for the Roman dead were
made from broken wagons and siege engines. Around the huge fires
there was dancing and singing, and many prayers of thanksgiving.

Dawn
found Judah walking aimlessly among the jubilant Judeans, the eagle
still clutched in his hand. He had been carousing all night, and now
exhaustion and spirits made him feel muddled and stupid. But still,
whether cavorting with the crowds or searching the dead for loot,
every fighting man stopped to shout acclaim for the hero of the hour.

It
wasn’t pride that kept Judah holding the standard. The damned thing
was glued to his hand by gore, and he was too tired to pry it free.
Seen up close, it was a homely image. Crude, not at all magnificent.
The likeness of Nero Caesar was laughable, worse even than the one on
coins. The eagle’s wings were lopsided – no, that was from where
Judah had crushed the aquilifer’s
skull. The golden talons clutched the engraved Roman numerals XII.

It
might not have been much to look at, but a lost eagle was a grave
blow to Rome’s immortality. Only a handful had ever been taken, and
Rome had proved it would do anything to reclaim them. Famously,
Augustus had negotiated a humiliating peace with Parthia in order to
recover the eagles of Crassus, dressing it up as a Roman military
victory. What would the Romans not give to get this eagle back?
Judea’s freedom was a small price for Roman honor.

He’d
pulled a long tunic over his head at some point to cover his
nakedness. Blood and offal made the garment clung to him in a most
ill way. He was sticky all over, his leg was throbbing where the
hobnails had torn him, and he had countless scrapes, cuts, and
bruises. There was a gash along his chest where a Roman sword had
nearly laid him open.

Dazed,
he belatedly noticed that some men were picking through Roman corpses
looking for arms and armour. I
should do that. He attempted
to pull the staff out of his hand, but his left hand became lodged in
the sticky mass of gristle and hair as well. Laughing at the
absurdity of it, he was shaking at his hands when a quiet voice said,
“Step on the haft.”

Levi.
The tall man seemed to be Judah’s own shadow. Obediently, Judah
bent over and used his foot to wrench the broken staff from his grip.

“Levi
ben Patroclus. You’re a young fool, and brave. Such men need
protection.”

“I’ve
never seen anyone fight like you.”

“I
did not take the eagle.”

“Are
you a soldier..?”

“A
bodyguard.” Levi grimaced. “Though after last night I’ll need a
new employer.”

Judah
was wondering if he should apologize when someone shouted his name.
“Judah!” The harsh voice made Levi’s hand drop to his sword.
But Judah knew the voice – that idiot Phannius. “I’ve been
looking for you!”

Judah
had been looking for Phannius, too. Not for the pleasure of his
company, but for vindication. If anything might have earned him the
right to marry Deborah…

He
wondered if she had come from the city, and for a moment his heart
leapt. But there was no sign of Deborah, just her loutish brother,
riding awkwardly on a Roman horse beside two other men. Built wider
than Judah, he was older and far less handsome. Yet the drop of
priestly blood in his veins gave him a pugnacious superiority that
made Judah’s skin crawl. Thankfully Deborah hadn’t inherited her
brother’s pretentions.

“They
tell me you took the eagle! You! I can’t believe it!” The fool
was grinning, and when he dismounted he clapped Judah on the shoulder
as if they were best friends. “Well done, brother! Well done!”

Brother?
Your family refused me that title. Now my only brother is dead. Aloud
he said, “Praise means so much when it comes from such an elevated
person.”

Phannius
wasn’t sure if it was sincere or a jab. Before he could decide, the
two men riding with him introduced themselves. One was the ferel
priest who had thrown the first spear. He gave his name as Simon bar
Giora – an odd name, as Giora meant The
Stranger. The other was the
balding Idumean who had been calling out Israel. His name was Eleazar
ben Simon. Like Phannius, they now rode captured horses, and had been
looking for Judah.

“Where
is it?” demanded Simon bar Giora, dropping from his saddle. His
face was a bristle of beard, eyebrows, and crooked teeth. “Where’s
the eagle?”

Arms
too tired to move, Judah jerked his chin at the dented and
blood-stained object at his feet. Instantly both Eleazar and Simon
lunged. Eleazar came up with it and leapt at once upon his horse’s
back, the symbol of Rome’s pride in his hands. Simon cursed loudly
as he flung himself back in the saddle to chase Eleazar, galloping
away with the eagle high aloft.

Phannius
laughed. “Serves them right – the Romans, I mean. Graven images!
Hah! You know where we are?”

Phannius
clambered back into his saddle, which took him three tries – he’d
clearly been drinking. “Good show, Judah. I’ll tell my sister –
you’re a hero.” He kicked his heels until the mount trotted off
after the leaders of this revolution.

The
thought of Deborah warmed him. But Judah didn’t feel like a hero.
He’d thought killing Romans would fill the hole left by his
brother’s death. In the moment of battle, it had. Now, surrounded
by thousands of dead men, he felt empty, spent. He recalled the man
who had begged for mercy, and was ashamed.